


Taste Me

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Baking, Fairy cakes, Getting Together, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Slight Food Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Potter has done a lot of things that Draco's never been able to quite figure out. But when he starts baking cupcakes for people--of people--  Draco's determined to figure out why.  (And, more importantly, why not forhim.)





	Taste Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serpensthesia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpensthesia/gifts).



> Inspired by Serpensthesia's (linked below) _brilliant_ work on Harry Potter themed cupcakes; almost none of the flavours mentioned are mine. (For pics and recipes, check out the link!)
> 
> For [Serpensthesia](https://serpensthesia.tumblr.com/tagged/fantastic-cakes-and-where-to-find-them). I'm so sorry I missed your birthday, sweets; you're such an amazingly supportive person, and such an awesome contributor to this fandom in general! I hope your birthday was great! <3
> 
> Thanks so much to the amazing chibaken for the beta! (It's only... Half betaed, as I was anxious to get it up once I'd finished, and normal people keep normal hours, so please excuse any remaining mistakes; I'll adjust accordingly as soon as I can. lol.)
> 
> All characters belong to JK Rowling and associated publishers.

Draco had survived a lot of things in his life: losing first place in class to Granger; losing every Quidditch game to Potter. He’d been nearly maimed by a Hippogriff, been cornered by attacking bogies, and had a derisive song that he’d spent a week composing turned into a triumphant proclamation of the Weasel’s athletic prowess. And those were only the little things; he wasn’t even including living with the Dark Lord for nearly two years, or having his wand stolen and then not receiving any (well, very little) credit for its importance in ending the war. 

Despite all that, he’d survived with his sanity intact, even if his pride might have been in tatters for a while. 

But this— _this_ —was unacceptable.

Draco had found the thing that was, without a doubt, sure to send him flying into the depths of psychosis.

And it all started with something as small as a fairy cake.

Well, with a few dozen of them.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t _noticed_ the way the fairy cakes had been popping up around Hogwarts. Every few days or week, a new person would be giving them them to their friends. There didn’t seem to be rhyme or reason to it; people from every House but his own could be seen eating them. But it wasn’t until he saw Weasley taking rudely giant bites of one—in the middle of Advanced Charms, no less—that he began to feel curious. 

“Yeah,” Draco overheard him say to Longbottom, mouth full, when he walked by Granger and Weasley’s table to fetch an extra book, “he named it after me. Carrot cake and walnuts. Cream cheese frosting. There’s some kind of spice in it too.” His voice lowered. “They’re better than my mum’s.”

 _He,_ Weasley had said. _He._ Someone with kitchen skills had baked something for Weasley. 

Draco glanced at Potter, studiously ignoring Weasley as he whispered to Longbottom. A small, pleased smile played around the corners of Potter’s mouth, as he sat next to Longbottom, but he didn’t acknowledge his friends. No, he decided to flick a small look to Draco, instead. His smile grew, as if they were sharing a secret of sorts. Draco felt rooted in place from it, that little uptick of Potter’s lips, directed at him of all people. He thought he should try smiling back; they were certainly civil enough these days, Potter always trying to draw him into a discussion about magical theory or Quidditch or something before Draco couldn’t stand the pity anymore and managed to escape. But what purpose would smiling back serve, other than to make it even more obvious he’d been listening? He peeled his gaze away from Potter’s and turned to the bookshelf again.

“Can I try it?” Longbottom asked.

Weasley snorted. “Yeah, but not this one. There are at least five batches. In the common room,” he added, taking another bite. “Haven’t you seen? He’s been making them for people he likes. Never felt so lucky to be his best friend, honestly.”

“That’s because you almost die around me way too often,” Potter’s voice sounded, low and amused. “I had to do something to make up for it.”

“ _This_. Keep doing this,” Weasley said emphatically. “You should make some for Nev.”

“It’s in the plans,” Potter said, huffing a laugh. “Apparently, I’m supposed to do it for everyone I like, right?”

Longbottom started talking and a short scuffle ensued wherein Draco gathered Longbottom was attempting to steal the Weasel’s fairy cake. Empty-handed, Draco headed back to his seat and dropped into it, just a little depressed at the realisation that he could never have carrot cake with cream cheese frosting again without thinking of— of Ronald fucking Weasley. That it was a fairy cake made it worse; they were far more tempting and refined than cake slices, in Draco’s opinion. And that it looked, well, _good_ was the annoying icing on the… 

He frowned and straightened, shoving the thought out of his mind, and focused on—on—on whatever the hell Flitwick was saying. So what if Weasley got a fairy cake named after him. He was a fucking war hero at this point, and best friend to the Saviour; fairy cakes were probably the least of his perks.

***

After Weasley, it was Longbottom—like Potter had promised—smiling widely in the library after class a few days later as he distributed his own fairy cakes. “The Neville,” he announced proudly, falling into a whisper when he was shushed by Madam Pince. The fairy cakes were huge, as big as muffins, the bottom almost the size of Longbottom’s palm as he pulled them from his charmed basket and handed them out. They were topped with a smooth white frosting with a crystal-sugar edging and were covered in a drippy amber glaze; honey, if Draco was right.

Longbottom looked over just then and caught Draco’s eye. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before reaching into his basket, drawing out another and offering it to Draco. “Do you want one? I have plenty.”

Appalled that he’d been noticed watching the proceedings—worse, that Longbottom had decided to take sympathy on him—Draco shook his head. “I just ate,” he said, stomach growling. “But thank you.” He paused. “You’re being incredibly indiscreet; aren’t you worried Pince will see?”

“Already got her permission, as long as we keep it down,” Longbottom told him with a smile, before turning and passing Draco’s fairy cake to someone else. Draco eyed it mournfully before looking back down at his Advanced Transfiguration text, then spent the next twenty minutes listening to to people eating quietly, the subtle sounds of chewing punctuated by the occasional soft, approving moan. He found himself idly wondering if there was a secret, _extra_ -advanced way of transfiguring something like parchment into dessert. He stared resentfully at Madam Pince, who had never allowed food in before.

Her hand disappeared under the counter for a moment, the came up and casually popped a bite of something—with a glimmering, crystal-sugar edge—into her mouth.

Draco gathered up his books and stalked out. The elves would bring him something in the Slytherin dorms, he was sure—something even better than Longbottom’s stupid fairy cakes—that would get rid of his sudden craving.

***

Over the next several weeks, Draco was forced to endure Granger glowing when Potter surprised her with a batch of ridiculous, almond-stuffed, tea-and-chocolate fairy cakes, which looked so good his whole mouth flooded with saliva; he was forced to witness Hannah Abbott hugging Potter tightly, then studying her vanilla-bean-frosted banana fairy cake with a great deal of intensity before finally lifting it and biting into it with a sigh. He even caught himself glowering at the headmistress, who seemed delighted and touched when Potter gave her a batch of tiny, brandy-flavoured fruitcakes, topped with some kind of glaze.

“Geez, Malfoy,” Potter said from behind him. Draco stiffened. “What’d McGonagall do to you?”

“What?” Draco asked, as civilly as possible. “Nothing. Why?”

Potter eased down next to him at the Slytherin table, perching uncomfortably, as if about to launch himself away. Draco scooted over, allowing for more space between them. “Just that you look like you’re trying to aim a nonverbal hex at her right now.”

It wasn’t that Draco hadn’t considered it, but he’d be aiming for the damn fairy cake. “What do you want now, Potter?”

Lips pursing, Potter gave an awkward shrug. He smelled like powders—flour, sugar—and also a bit citrus-y. Draco forced himself not to lean closer. 

“Just saying hi, I guess,” Potter finally said. He looked at Draco with a small frown that displayed more between his dark eyebrows than on his mouth. “You could talk to me back when I talk to you. We’re not enemies anymore, you know.”

“I know,” Draco said shortly. He wasn’t _stupid._ He’d saved Potter’s life (pretty much), and Potter had returned the favour; Potter had even kept Draco and his family from Azkaban. Besides which, words like _enemies_ took on a different meaning after you’d hosted a noseless megalomaniac in your ancestral home. Anyway, he wasn’t ignoring Potter so much as… staying cautious—a perfectly respectable Slytherin trait, if there ever was one. “That doesn’t make us friends,” he added with a deep, painful twinge inside.

“I know,” Potter echoed quietly. He looked down at the scuffed tip of is trainer and traced it against the floor for a moment. “But we could—”

“We could what?” Draco prodded when Potter fell silent. “Help each other with homework? Hold hands and snog?”

“I mean, we could,” Potter said with a little quirk to his mouth that made Draco’s stomach flip. “Although I never much figured you for the hand-holding type.”

“I’m not,” Draco said stiffly, refusing to rise to Potter’s baiting. Pansy had been awful about it back in fourth year, her slightly-damp palm always glued to his own, fingers locked possessively between his like she was making a point. “I hate holding hands,” he said, swallowing hard when Potter just continued to look at him, steadily, like he was waiting for something. “And I loathe awkward conversations, and I _can’t stand_ fairy cakes, so if you’ll excuse me.”

“I didn’t even mention the fairy cakes!” Potter objected, then stopped. “Wait, you hate fairy cakes? Who hates fairy cakes? Your mother sends them to you before every holiday break; I always see the other Slytherins walking around eating them. And you get a different kind for your birthday, too. That kind with the pink frosting.”

“Are you monitoring my food intake now?” Draco said as icily as he could manage. The tips of his ears blazed hot; he shook his head so his hair fell over them.

“I just—why lie about not liking something you like?” Potter asked practically. He rubbed a hand over his face, jostling his glasses. “Is this one of your ‘if Potter does it, it must be awful’ things? Because Luna said you seemed to like the one I made for her.”

 _Like_ didn’t cover it, really. When Lovegood had shoved the delicate, orangeflower water-and-honey cake at him, he’d really had no choice but to bite into it. His family had kept her _hostage_ for Merlin’s sake—sampling a food Draco hadn’t wanted to touch had seemed like the least he could do. There had even been _petals_ in the damned thing, baked right into the cake, surprisingly sweet against the more subtle flavours underneath. 

“Harry made them for me,” she’d announced softly, giving him a look far too perceptive for someone who seemed as though she were high on potions half the time. “He said he thought they seemed like me.”

“They do,” Draco had managed after swallowing. The taste had lingered on his tongue—soft, sweet, almost vaguely dreamy—as he’d tried to give the fairy cake back to her. She’d shaken her head and simply drawn another out of her bag, sealed in a protective charm, and pressed it into his other hand. 

“Eat the rest,” Lovegood had advised pleasantly. “Personalised baked goods are a cure-all for what ails you. Well, a cure-some. Well, they can be.”

She’d walked away then, leaving him standing in an empty corridor holding two fairy cakes he’d been determined not to eat. Draco had thought about Vanishing them a dozen times on his way down to the Slytherin dorms. Instead, he’d finished the first before falling asleep and didn’t even clean his teeth, enjoying the sticky sweetness of the glaze as he’d dozed. The second, he’d saved until after lunch the following day.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, and Draco snapped his mouth closed, swallowing. 

“It was fine,” Draco said, remembering the question. “I was being polite. See, there’s this thing you do when you have _manners_ , Potter. You sample things you’d prefer not to. You tell your mother you like the bakery items she sends. You _leave, when someone implies they’re busy_ ,” he added pointedly. 

Potter looked at him, green eyes sparkling behind his monstrously ugly glasses, and said, “You haven’t actually asked me to leave.”

Draco sighed, giving up. “I need to get back to my rooms, anyway.” He stood, regretting the necessity. But he couldn’t afford to run afoul of Potter these days, and sitting next to him was too tempting—for too many reasons. Draco’s reputation was barely beginning to recover as it was.

“Oh.” Potter did that frowning thing between his eyebrows again. “Well, if you get bored later, I’m baking something for Ginny. I could use a taste-tester.” He smiled up at Draco, guileless, as if he were just a normal wizard rather than the exalted hero of Draco’s— of _people’s_ fantasies. Draco stared at his preposterously messy black hair as Potter tilted his head back; he looked at the jagged scar over Potter’s right eye. His eyes fell to Potter’s mouth, to his relaxed smile, and he wondered how it was _so easy_ for Potter to do that. 

“I won’t get bored,” Draco said at last. “Fortunately, I don’t have so few prospects yet that I need to resort to becoming a tasting elf. But I appreciate the offer. I hope your girlfriend enjoys them.”

“What? She’s n—”

Draco hurried away, heart pounding. He headed straight to the Slytherin dorms, the one place he could be confident he wouldn’t have to see one of Potter’s damned fairy cakes. Potter would never even _consider_ baking for one of them.

***

Two weeks later, Blaise wandered into their room, eating a fairy cake. It had swirled chocolate piping, and fucking _glinted_ with tiny gold flakes.

“Where,” Draco asked, folding his arms over his chest, “did you get that from?”  
“Potter,” Blaise said, looking at him with surprise. “Want one?”

Draco did. He shook his head impatiently, barely managing not to tap his foot. “ _Why_ would Potter give _you_ one?” 

Blaise smirked in a way that made Draco’s blood boil. “We were talking and I asked him to,” he said smugly, taking another bite. 

Draco sat down heavily on his bed. “Did you pay him or something?”

“Nope.” Blaise snorted, licking a bit of frosting off his thumb. “He could probably buy and sell us twice over, Draco. He can’t want for gold, especially now.”

“And he just said _yes_ ,” Draco said flatly, wondering what Potter possibly _did_ want for.

“That’s right,” Blaise told him, as cheerful as Blaise could get without dropping his long-perfected affectation of not-giving-a-shit. 

“Did you have to promise to help him with something?” Draco persisted.

Blaise leveled dark eyes on him. “Eat a damn fairy cake, Draco.”

“I don’t want one,” Draco growled, gathering up his wand, and the towel and hair potions he’d put away moments before Blaise had come into the room. “He’s trying to make you look like a fool, and you’re letting him.”

“It’s cinnamon-chocolate,” Blaise said, arching one brow at him. Draco faltered, mid-step. “With some kind of cream filling. And cinnamon-Firewhiskey ganache. It’s the best thing you’ll ever have in your mouth. Except for me.”

Draco spun on the ball of his foot and snatched one of them up. “As if I’d ever,” he sneered. Snogging while drunk on elf-wine didn’t count, Draco reasoned, and if Blaise was using that as an example of his best work, it rather proved Draco right in not going back for more. He narrowed his eyes at Blaise and took a defiant bite, determined to prove—well, _something_.

Cinnamon-spiced chocolate burst over his tastebuds, dark and bittersweet. The ganache was smoky and rich, and the filling, thick and creamy, leveled out all of the stronger flavours battling for attention. It was… layered. And sexy. And somehow pretentious. It was a cupcake that didn’t give a shit what people thought of it, and somehow came out all the more enjoyable for that very characteristic. Draco could feel his pulse fluttering in his throat as he chewed, his cock jerking against the inside of his pyjama bottoms, and he released a shaky, unconscious groan when he swallowed, finally getting it. Potter wasn’t just baking cupcakes _for_ people. He was baking cupcakes _of_ them.

“I know, right?” Blaise smiled at him, slow and curling. “It’s like a fucking aphrodisiac.”

Draco had the sudden graphic image of Potter splayed out, wearing nothing but the fairy cake in a strategic place. He swallowed again and tossed the remainder of the cake at Blaise, who caught it one-handed and scowled.

“Not enough whisky in it to get me interested again,” Draco said. 

Blaise snickered. “Hey, didn’t you just come from the showers?”

“No,” Draco lied, sweeping out of the room. He waited a moment until he was sure Blaise wasn’t going to get nosy, then turned away from the direction of the bathroom and walked at a swift clip down the corridor that led to Pansy’s room in the girl’s dorms. He knocked softly, then again—harder—when she didn’t open up right away. He could hear the Weird Sisters warbling quietly inside.

There was the sound of muffled voices, a hushed argument, then the door opened. Pansy was wearing a silk dressing gown, the outline of her tits making it obvious she was naked underneath; her raven hair was mussed, her lipstick smudged. “Get Theo out of here,” he told her tersely.

“I hate to think I’m so predictable,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. She eyed the objects in his hands. “And I hate to think you’re so hard up as to ask me to shower with you.”

“Fuck off. Get out, Theo.”

The hastily Disillusioned person in the corner moved, and the charm fell away to reveal Millicent, pink-faced and glaring in a long, loose t-shirt and nothing else. Draco raised his eyebrows; he wasn’t aware that any Slytherins even _owned_ something as common as a t-shirt. Still, he nodded at Millie. “Sorry. Excuse us.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’s staying. What do you want?”

Draco grimaced. “Potter’s doing something with the fairy cakes, and he’s gotten to Blaise.”

Millie ambled over to the bed and sat down, crossing her legs. “It can’t be that bad, whatever he’s doing. Blaise gave me one earlier and it was amazing.”

“No one asked you,” Draco snapped. Millie’s forehead creased and she gave him a look that would, on anyone else, appear steady and unaffected. On her, it made Draco take a cautious step away. “Sorry,” he said again. He let his shoulders sag.

“Well, she’s right,” Pansy said irritably. 

“You _had_ one?” Draco asked, feeling betrayed. 

“Of course not!” Pansy pouted. “What do you take me for? Not only must those things be about nine thousand calories per bite, but I’m not putting anything of Blaise’s in my mouth ever again. You know how he gets.” She hesitated for a beat. “Besides, Potter made them.”

Relieved that she understood, Draco nodded fervently. “Right. What’s he _doing?_ He even asked me to taste them.”

“Really?” Pansy asked, sounding marginally more interested. “When?”

Draco flapped a hand. “Nevermind. I _didn’t_ , obviously. But—”

“Why not?” Millie asked.

“Why not?” Draco repeated, giving her a blank look. “Because _why?_ He’s already worshipped, and adored, and friends with every fucking witch and wizard on the planet—”

“Not me,” Pansy muttered.

“Thank Merlin,” Draco muttered back, then continued. “So why on earth does he need to make friends with us? What’s he trying to prove?”

“I don’t know… That there’s more to life than what happened last year?” Millie suggested.

“With _cake?_ ” Draco spat.

Millie shrugged. “Well, yeah. With something. You know. Cake is nice.”

Pansy gave her an affectionate look. “I’ll buy you cake.”

“I’ll eat it.”

“Off where?” Pansy asked, tone turning sultry.

Draco stamped his foot to regain their attention, fiercely regretting ever having made friends with either of them at all. “I’m _still here!_ ”

“So?” Pansy snorted indelicately, then gave him a long, considering look. “Do you think Potter—what did you call him? ‘Adored by all?’—Is really going to jeopardize that by, I don’t know, poisoning people with his fairy cakes?”

“No,” Draco conceded grudgingly. “But it’s not exactly normal either, is it?”

“Are you telling me you thought Potter was normal _before_ the Great Fairy Cake Mystery of 1999?” Pansy said sardonically. Millie chuckled, plucking at the rumpled bedsheets beneath her. Pansy smiled, using all her teeth, and Draco hated her as fiercely as he ever loved her. “I don’t think you’d find him nearly as interesting, if that were the case.”

“Fuck you,” Draco said weakly, not bothering to defend himself. Potter was interesting. A lot of people were interested. In knowing more about him, at least. He’d defeated the Dark Lord, that was an interesting thing. And the flying, and the sudden baking, and the way he’d come back to pull Draco out of the fire even though Draco was pretty sure they’d both die because of it. The way he’d continued their handshake after Draco’s trial, for about five seconds too long, looking at him all the while, and the way he kept trying to talk to Draco since the start of the school year… All were sort of interesting things. But Draco didn’t care for her implication, in any case.

Pansy sighed. “Look, I’m busy. I promise not to let Potter poison me— I’m probably the one person he’d most want to, anyway. And I’ll keep on the lookout for any behavior from Blaise that screams, ‘I’ve been spelled by Harry Potter for no fucking reason,’ okay?”

Draco pulled a face. “I’m not going mad.”

“Never said you were,” she said. She shrugged. “Well, maybe I did. But never to your face.”

“You should ask him what’s going on, if you’re so curious,” Millie piped up. 

“Because he’d just tell me,” Draco said sarcastically, then closed his mouth with a click and considered. Potter was a Gryffindor. They weren’t really known for their subtlety, and even less for their discretion. There was a chance that, if Draco phrased it right, Potter might _actually let his plans slip_. “Thanks,” he told her, surprised.

Millie looked confused but nodded. “Anything that gets you gone sooner.”

Draco turned to Pansy. “You’ve been no help. You never are.”

“I am too, but I’m helping someone else right now,” she said dismissively. “Go away.”

He nodded and let himself out; he had to plan.

***

It took almost the entire day to figure out the right way to approach Potter—and find a time when he wasn’t surrounded by pastry-eating sycophants—but Draco finally caught him on the way out of the library, just after Granger split off from him to go who-cared-where else. Draco lengthened his strides marginally until he caught up with Potter, then fell into step beside him.

“You’re making them taste like people?” he said, trying to interject the right amount of curiosity into his voice.

Potter looked sideways, blinking. “Uh, yeah. Well, that’s sort of— I mean, I guess, the way they seem to me? My impression of them?”

“Ah.” They walked a few steps in silence until Potter’s surprise over Draco’s sudden presence seemed to fade. “It’s an interesting concept for a school project,” Draco said. “Muggle studies, right?”

“Er, no,” Potter said. “I just use their classroom kitchen, after hours.”

“Trying to introduce new wizarding concepts in muggle baking?” Draco tried, keeping his face mild.

“Not that, either,” Potter said, stopping to face him, and this time it looked like he was on the verge of a laugh; his mouth twitched up and the corners; his eyes studied Draco’s face, then dropped to run over the rest of him. Draco’s blood thundered in his ears. “Was I this obvious in sixth year?”

“What?” Draco asked, then flushed. “You were worse. I’m not _stalking_ you, Potter. Merely trying to be friendly; you know, that thing you said you wanted?”

“S’not what I said I wanted,” Potter muttered. Draco considered whether a month in Azkaban might be worth the satisfaction of throwing a tiny hex.

“How’d the cupcakes for the W— For Ginevra Weasley turn out?” Draco asked, resuming walking. Potter waiting for a moment, then followed. 

“They didn’t. I couldn’t find a flavour profile for her that suited. She’s not my girlfriend anymore, by the way,” he added on a rush. “We broke up at the beginning of the summer.”

“Oh.” Draco frowned. “Who is, then? Chang? Abbot?” He tried to remember any other girls Potter had given cupcakes to, and his eyes widened. “Not Lovegood.”

“No, I don’t have a _girl-friend,_ ” Potter said, looking hard at him, then rolling his eyes when Draco gave up and shrugged. “I’m _sin-gle_.” 

“And working on your enunciation?” Draco asked dryly. Potter laughed, the warm sound pooling comfortingly in Draco’s belly like a cup of tea in the morning. 

“Why not Luna?” Potter asked after a moment. “You tried her cupcake; you must like her.”

“She’s my cousin,” Draco said thoughtlessly. 

“So? Isn’t everyone?” Potter joked, and Draco snorted. 

“Just about. Even you and I are distantly related,” Draco said, smirking coldly at the look on Potter’s face. “Don’t worry; no one’s going to associate the Potter name with the Malfoy name these days, except in the most peripheral of ways.”

“No, I just—” Potter swallowed. “How distant?”

Draco thought for a moment. “Seventh cousins, twice removed?”

For some reason, Potter seemed relieved. His shoulders came down a bit. “Oh. So, like, _really_ distant.”

Intrigued, Draco cast him a closer, side-long glance, but Potter didn’t look up. Draco cleared his throat, deciding he wasn’t getting anywhere with this topic. “So how’d you get the idea for what you’re doing? A dream or something?”

Potter blanched but recovered quickly, giving a strained laugh. “Something like that,” he hedged, making Draco even more determined to find out what the fuck he was up to. 

“So what about Blaise?” Draco asked casually. “How’d you know how to—what’d you call it? Find his flavour?”

“Flavour-profile,” Potter mumbled, and just as quickly as his face had drained of colour moments ago, it now flooded pink. “Like I said, it’s just—the impression I get of people.”

Something about that bothered Draco, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. He frowned, then smoothed out his forehead. “It was spot-on,” he congratulated graciously.

“Thanks. A lot of batches get thrown away.”

“I wonder how I’d taste,” Draco said absently.

“Me too,” Potter mumbled.

Draco tripped, then righted himself, staring at Potter. His mouth ran dry. “What?”

“What?” Potter returned vaguely, eyes on the wall behind Draco. “Nothing. Did you want me to make you a fairy cake? Because—”

“No!” Draco blurted. “Of course not!” Appalled, he realised that this whole conversation might—in retrospect—seem as though he were angling for Potter to _bake_ for him. “I just wanted to know how you’re planning on using them to humiliate all of us,” he added, the words bounding uncontrollably off his tongue. He promptly wanted to bite it off at as the affable look on Potter’s face melted away into a kind of disappointed anger.

“Right, of course.” Potter said through his teeth. “You’re a fucking idiot, Malfoy. I’ll see you around.”

“Wait, no—” 

But Potter was already turning, disappearing down a corridor. He walked too fast for Draco to catch up without outright running, and with dismay Draco watched him go. Despite Potter’s possibly nefarious plans, Draco had the sickly, sneaking suspicion that he’d just humiliated _himself_ enough for one day without chasing Potter through the halls of Hogwarts.

***

Draco wished he’d chased Potter through the halls of Hogwarts.

For the next week, fairy cakes were everywhere. No longer personalised that Draco could see, but he wasn’t able to go to class, or the library, or the Quidditch pitch—or, hell, even the loo in one horrifyingly memorable instance—without encountering someone raving about Potter’s sudden prolific baking skills. It was the students, the professors, Peeves, and Draco could handle it, he really could. Until.

“You’re eating a Potter fairy cake,” he accused stonily.

“What? No I’m not,” Pansy said, quirking a wicked little smile at him as she peeled back the decorative liner and took a bite. Her tongue darted out, licking away a smear of frosting. “I made this.”

“You’d have the elves levitate you from place to place rather than walk, if you could,” Draco said snidely. “There’s no way you made that— that—” 

_That perfect thing,_ he wanted to say. It was dark brown, almost black in tone, covered with a deliciously messy dollop of whipped frosting in the palest of pink, and dotted with red berries of some sort. As he watched, she took a deliberate bite, eyeing him, and a creamy reddish filling oozed out. 

“ _That_ ,” he finished lamely, swallowing. 

“You think so?” She held it away from her face and peered at it. “Yeah, that doesn’t seem like something I would do, does it?”

“How?”

“I asked him,” she said simply. Draco felt the burn of frustration and betrayal, tight behind his breastbone, grow. 

“ _Why!_ You wanted to give him up to the Dark Lord!” Draco snapped. “Why would he do it for you?”

“Well, certainly not the same reason he did it for Blaise,” she said slyly. Disturbed, Draco examined her—the perfectly plucked brows, her glossy hair just so. Her slick red mouth tilting up at him challengingly. He couldn’t figure out which question to avoid—which one she _wanted_ him to ask—so he asked both.

“He doesn’t care about the whole ‘Potter is here, come kill him’ bit, then?” Draco asked, arching an eyebrow of his own. “And why’d he do it for Blaise?”

“Oh, I bet he still _cares,_ ” Pansy said blithely. “But I apologised for that—” she waved a hand, “overwrought lapse, and complimented the baking thing. Then today, he gave me a basket of these.” She displayed the fairy cake again with a smile. “Very dark chocolate-clove cake, filled with pomegranate curd. These are pomegranate seeds, see?” she asked smugly, twirling it a bit in her hand. “And as for Blaise…”

She took another bite and Draco’s lip curled as he waited her out. Dark chocolate and pomegranate. Bittersweet and flashy and tart. Of course.

Finally, Pansy swallowed, wiping the corner of her mouth with the crooked knuckle of her pinky. “Well, I’m pretty sure Blaise just flirted. He didn’t really have anything to apologise for.”

“Hah bloody h—” Draco started. His shock flashed hot, then cold, rendering him silent but for the sudden roar in his head. _Sin-gle_ , he’d said, before he’d said that thing about— about— “Potter’s not,” Draco said blankly. “He can’t be.”

“Mmmhmm!” she said, tone coming up in a sing-song at the end. “Honestly, Draco, if you stopped paying so much attention to him, you might learn something about him once in awhile.”

“Did Potter and Blaise—?” Draco asked faintly. He recalled with sudden horror how Blaise’s cake had _tasted_ —how it’d made him half-hard in an instant, the luscious flavours mingling in a way that had practically whispered _fuck me_ to Draco’s subconscious. 

“You should probably ask him,” Pansy said, leveling her gaze on him triumphantly. “Or one of them, at least.”

“I told him we’re related,” Draco got out painfully as the memory of that came back too, and he closed his eyes briefly.

Pansy sounded positively gleeful. “What? You did not.” Her eyes widened, and she started laughing. “Draco, my god!”

“I didn’t think that he—” Draco faltered, unsure of how to finish that sentence. Just because Potter had flirted with Blaise, just because he might be, impossibly enough, an actual _option_ , didn’t mean he’d be _interested_. Except… 

Potter _had_ sort of offered to make him a fairy cake. And he’d wondered how Draco might taste.

“Well, he is,” Pansy said, giggling, and if Draco didn’t love her, he’d dose her charmed face cream with a boil-inducing potion. She finally quieted and her face softened in a way he’d rarely seen before or since the the utter shit of sixth year. “He stays up late, in the Muggle Studies kitchen,” she told him gently. The smile still playing around her mouth hardened. “And don’t ever again tell me I don’t do anything for you,” she added, then took another tiny, savage bite of her fairy cake.

Draco swallowed, then turned without thinking and headed out of the Slytherin common room. The halls of Hogwarts were quiet this time of night, supper having long since ended and most of the students either tucked away in their beds or diligently studying in the library for their exams. The click of his shoes echoed eerily in the darkened corridors, but his blood felt hot, his pulse thrumming in his wrists and the hollow of his throat. He climbed one set of stairs and then another, feeling it was rather bad form to curse a man you’d attempted to kill for instituting an Apparition-ban on Hogwarts grounds, but internally cursing Dumbledore with every step anyway. 

Finally, he reached the classroom, eyes falling to the faint glow of light beneath the heavy wooden doors. He yanked them open and stepped inside, breathless.

Potter looked up from where he was sitting at a counter, arm frantically whipping something in a large bowl. He stilled, then scowled. “What do _you_ want?”

“Why are you making the fairy cakes, Potter?” Draco asked, taking another step. He ticked his wand behind himself and heard the doors shut with a heavy thunk. He ticked it again and heard the substantial click of the lock sliding into place. Potter’s posture straightened, gaze trained on Draco’s movements as Draco got closer to him.

He glanced at the door, then back to Draco thoughtfully. “It’s therapy.”

That… was not what Draco was hoping to hear. He stopped in place. “What?”

“My mind-healer,” Potter explained. “I have trouble sleeping, so she suggested I focus on doing something I like, something non-magical. She suggested cooking, but I had to do that a lot growing up, and I don’t really like it,” he continued, eyeing Draco in a way that was equal parts wary and interested. The uptick at the corner of Potter’s mouth gave Draco the courage to venture forward again. He had a smear of batter on his chin, Draco noted as he got within touching distance. Draco wanted to taste it. “But baking is kind of nice. And I’m good at it. And it tires me out, so that helps.”

“There are a lot of non-magical activities that could tire you out, Potter,” Draco said. His face heated up as Potter’s smile grew into a full-fledged grin. Draco cleared his throat. “I just meant—why the fairy cakes for people?”

“Is that what you meant?” Potter murmured, and suddenly Draco wasn’t even sure. Still, Potter scratched his nose with a sigh. “I had an idea for one, that’s all.”

“Weasley?” Draco guessed, easing down onto the stool beside him. Draco held his breath and adjusted his position until one of his knees was between both of Potter’s. It brushed the inside of Potter’s legs, and Potter watched the progress but didn’t move away. 

“Not Ron,” Potter said after a moment, voice strained. There was the faintest dusting of white powder over one jaw. 

“Granger then,” Draco said slowly, heart pounding wildly. He caught Potter’s eyes and drew his thumb up to his mouth, licking it. Potter made a tiny, plaintive sound as Draco reached out and cleaned off the smudge of flour. Draco left the batter where it was. 

“N-not Hermione,” Potter said. 

“Not Blaise,” Draco checked in a voice so even that there was no way—wizarding or muggle—that it could be his own. His own actual voice as yelling at him right now that he was being an idiot and that if he pushed it any further, Potter was going to pull his wand and send him flying into the wall. However, both voices were overruled by Draco’s rather hopeful cock, which was growing uncomfortably hard, trapped in his trousers as it was. 

“Not Blaise,” Potter said, voice low. His gaze settled on Draco’s mouth. They were close enough that he could feel the soft puffs of Potter’s breath against his face, and still neither of them moved away.

Encouraged, Draco licked his lips. “Then you had an idea for what I’d taste like?” he asked.

“Just as a fairy cake,” Potter admitted, and Draco kissed him. 

Potter’s hands came up to Draco’s hips as Draco stood again from his stool and leaned into Potter’s body, pressing him against the countertop. He slanted his mouth harder over Potter’s, letting his fingers tangle in his messy black hair the way he’d thought about for months, for _years_ and that his grip was too tight didn’t seem to bother Potter at all. Instead, he made a quiet, appreciative sound, and the sweep of his tongue against Draco’s lips was startling enough that Draco opened them, allowing Potter’s tongue to slip inside. Draco groaned at the touch of it, the taste, like fruit and sugar and cream, and he fit himself between Potter’s spread thighs, pushing their bodies flush, and for long minutes, they stayed like that, two pieces of an unlikely puzzle, mouths moving against each other’s, soft sounds of pleasure filling the air.

Draco gasped when Potter pulled away to draw in a breath. Potter’s eyes were practically black, only threaded with a thin rim of the exuberant green to which Draco had grown far too accustomed. His chest heaved against Draco’s, and Draco could feel his prick, hard and tantalising, against his own. Draco swallowed, swooping down again for another kiss, curling his tongue around Potter’s as Potter breathed into his mouth with short, sharp pants. “You,” Draco mumbled against his lips, “would be gingerbread.”

Potter moaned, pulling away to tuck his face into the curve of Draco’s neck. Draco’s breath left him explosively as Potter’s teeth caught the cords of his throat and bit down. His lips sealed over the spot; he sucked—gently at first, then harder when Draco rolled his hips instinctively. “What else?” Potter murmured, scraping his teeth to a new spot, just under Draco’s jaw. “What do I taste like?”

 _Everything,_ Draco wanted to tell him. He tilted his head to the side allowing Potter better access. “Gingerbread and— and pumpkin,” Draco said shakily. “Pumpkin cream filling,” he added after a moment, distracted by the way Potter’s tongue kept darting out, by the graze of his stubble against Draco’s skin.

“I sound delightful,” Potter said, huffing a laugh against Draco’s neck. Draco shivered. 

“You’re annoying as fuck,” Draco groaned. “You—you burn in the oven, and have confusing ingredients and— and— are hard to stir into a batter—”

The breath of laugh against him turned into a rumble, and Draco could feel Potter smile as his mouth travelled over Draco’s throat, from one spot to another while Draco continued to move against him, desperately seeking friction for his hard cock against Potter’s own. “You know nothing about baking, do you?” Potter said.

“I know what tastes good,” Draco countered, figuring now was not the time to comment on the massive amount of elf caterers his mother contracted for large events. 

“Okay,” Potter agreed simply, and—dear fucking _Merlin,_ —wedged a hand between the tight press of their bodies. His knuckles skimmed over the length of Draco’s cock; he turned his hand to cup it, fingers moving slowly from the root to the tip, like he was investigating. Draco hadn’t known they were allowed to _do_ that, he thought wildly, else he would have had his own hand stuffed down Potter’s trousers the instant their mouths met. “What about my frosting.”

Draco lowered his head; he licked off the spot of drying batter on Potter’s chin, before reaching between them too. He palmed Potter’s cock, fingers curling around the edges of it and dancing up the shaft, moving his hand slowly, and Potter’s head fell back against the table he was half-draped against. “Cream cheese frosting,” Draco decided in a whisper against the shell of Potter’s ear. “Salted-caramel, cream cheese frosting.”

Potter whined, and Draco released his prick for just long enough to reach up and undo his flies. His trousers opened, and Potter—getting the idea—began fumbling for the fastenings on Draco’s trousers, too. 

And it all felt so— so _improbable_ , snogging Potter over a desk, having Potter’s broom-calloused hands wriggle into his suddenly gaping trousers and curl around his cock, the sweet smell of sugar and spices floating around them. It was forty percent of every sexual fantasy Draco’d had about Potter—the others usually took place in the Quidditch Locker rooms, and occasionally in the Slytherin dorms—in the last few years. Draco’s forehead fell against Potter’s in disbelief, eyes on the way Potter’s teeth sank into his lip, then lower—between them—to the way Potter shoved Draco’s trousers down around his thighs with one hand and gave his cock a slow pull with the other. Draco made a stifled sound as he watched his foreskin glide up to cover the leaking head of his prick, guided by Potter’s touch, then back down pulling it tight to the base. “Potter,” he gritted out, not sure if it was a warning or a plea.

Potter’s eyes flicked up to Draco’s, then back down. He watched himself do it again. Paused, took a second to adjust his grip, fingers separating just a touch and re-curling around Draco’s shaft. His face was starkly fascinated. “Does it feel good?” he whispered.

“Oh _god_ ,” Draco whimpered. Potter’s earnest tone, and the way he tightened his fist as he began pulling on Draco’s cock—steadily, up and down, learning a rhythm—threatened to make Draco come undone. He swallowed. “I-it feels good,” he managed. “But—wait.”

“Why?” Potter asked, darting forward to give him another kiss, then pulling back with a lick to Draco’s upper lip. The smooth stroking over his cock increased fractionally in speed and Draco closed his eyes. “I want to see you come,” he said. And Draco almost _did_ , just from those words, just from Potter’s hair in his face as he leaned forward to watch himself work, just from the musky scent of sex and sweat between them, mingling with the softer smell of baked goods in the room. 

“We’re in the—” Draco gasped, hips moving forward in time with Potter’s swift hand. He kept _doing_ something with it, something Draco had never thought to do before while wanking, a tiny pause-squeeze midstroke, and then another as his fist smoothed over the glans. “—Classroom kitchens,” he finished, choking. He stilled Potter’s touch with his fingertips, just moments before it was too late, and dragged him forward into another kiss.

“So?”

“So nothing,” Draco mumbled. His hands lit on Potter’s hips and he locked eyes with him as he pushed down Potter’s trousers too. But he didn’t stop, as Potter had, with baring is cock. He lowered, knelt, chest rising and falling in short, fast breaths Potter’s face flickered with astonishment. Draco looked up at him questioningly, bracing himself for a _no_ or a _stop_ or a _wake the fuck up, Draco, you’re dreaming again_ , but what he got instead was a wordless nod, Potter’s Adam’s apple bobbing, and then Potter toed off his shoes. Draco watched that action rather than look up at the cock jutting near his face, out and away from Potter’s body, surrounded by its nest of curling black hair. It took all of his control, but he waited until he’d pulled Potter’s trousers and pants all the way off, stopping for a moment to peel his socks away from his feet, as Potter stripped his shirt and foggy glasses off, almost as an afterthought.

Draco took a deep breath, then lifted his gaze slowly from Potter’s feet, up the length of his legs, dusted with dark hair and lightly muscled, to Potter’s groin. He exhaled, relieved and exhilarated all at once. Potter’s cock was… normal. Neither the intimidating or disappointing size he’d been convinced it must be, it seemed slightly larger than average, perhaps a touch thicker than Draco’s own. It was flushed a deep pink, and the foreskin stretched tight around the head, which peeked out damply, glistening at the slit. Draco leaned forward without thought and darted a tongue out over that shine, licking the slippery pearl of precome away. It was bitter and strange, but not off-putting, so when Potter gasped quietly, when his prick jerked of its own accord, Draco did it again, this time wrapping a hand around the base of it and sealing his lips over the tip. 

Potter’s hand fell to Draco’s head; his voice cracked as he said Draco’s name. Draco pulled away uncertainly and looked back up. But Potter’s jaw was tight, and he didn’t look displeased, so Draco pulled a smirk somewhere out of his bubbling cauldron of emotions and said, “I want to taste you.”

“Okay,” Potter said faintly, hand still on Draco’s hair. He shuffled even closer, eyes narrow and dark, lips swollen from kissing. Draco looked at him for a moment longer, then returned to task, opening his mouth wider this time and pulling more in. He thought about those things he would imagine at night, bed hangings drawn tightly closed and privacy charms hastily thrown up; thought about how he’d fantasised it would feel for a tongue to swirl around the swollen head of his prick, so he tried that. Potter seemed to like it, his breath coming fast again, his fingers tightening on Draco’s hair. His other hand fell to Draco’s shoulder, grip biting into him through the fabric of Draco’s shirt, and his knees bent slightly as Draco curled his tongue around the dribbling, spongy head of Potter’s cock. He licked into the slit, tasting more fluid, and then stretched his lips open, ticking a glance upward as he took more of Potter’s cock, took him deeper and deeper until the hair at surrounding it was tickling his nose. Potter’s eyes had fallen shut and his face was screwed up tight, a blotchy red; he gnawed on his lip and looked half-crazed, and Draco thought it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen—far, far better than anything he’d ever imagined while alone, Potter confident and forceful, Potter begging for more on his hands and knees. 

But this Potter couldn’t even _watch_ Draco suck him, and Draco felt a sudden rush of euphoric confidence; he pulled his head back until he could lick at the tip again, then lowered it, gagging only a little as Potter jerked forward and his cock brushed the back of Draco’s throat. Draco repeated the motion until it started to feel natural, until the weight of Potter’s thick, stiff length on his tongue, the stretch of his mouth around it, the ache in his jaw, felt like second nature. Then Draco began to experiment, sucking lightly as he moved, harder, flicking his tongue against the sides and undersides. He added a hand, then tentatively brought up the other to Potter’s balls, which were drawing tight against his body; Draco liked the feel of that, but he wasn’t sure how Potter would respond until he cupped them, and the small “ _uhhh, uhhh_ ” sounds Potter was making became a startlingly loud moan and his fingers twisted painfully in Draco’s hair. Draco smiled around him, as much as he was able, and tightened both hands, the one working Potter’s prick and the one cupping his balls. He gave a tug, a gentle roll, and Potter said, “I’m going to—” then came in hot spurts, hitting the back of Draco’s throat with such force that Draco sputtered a bit, eyes watering, before he could swallow. It was bitter, like before, but salty too, and Draco swallowed as much as he could, letting Potter push into his mouth, tiny grunts issuing from his throat until his prick stopped twitching.

Draco drew off carefully, feeling oddly afraid of looking up again. He brought up his forearm and wiped his chin and mouth with his sleeve, glancing at Potter’s softening prick, wet with Draco’s saliva. His own cock throbbed in painful reminder, and then Potter said, voice low and husky, “Malfoy, c’mere.”

Levering himself up Draco forced himself to meet Potter’s eyes; the confusing bastard didn’t seem remotely embarrassed, or regretful, or even all that relaxed from the blowjob. Potter’s eyes were still watchful, he still looked turned-on. He kissed Draco, and said, “I was going to ask you on a date or something first.”

Surprised, Draco snorted, and Potter did too, laughing against him while they kissed; he didn’t even seem to mind the taste of himself, still in Draco’s mouth, opening his own to receive Draco’s tongue and lick at it. Then Potter’s hand found Draco’s cock again and he murmured, “I don’t know how to do—that. But I’d like to give it a try.”

Draco shuddered as Potter’s fingers coasted over his swollen shaft; his hips twitched, and he considered admitting that he’d never done it before either, but thought it best not to distract from the moment. Instead, since he’d obviously been dosed with Felix Felicis, Draco wrenched his mouth away from Potter’s and whispered, “Could you—”

“Could I what?” Potter prompted, smiling, his hand still pulling slowly at Draco’s cock. Draco had a sudden burst of pride that he hadn’t come already, and he congratulated himself silently for wanking in the showers twice after dinner. 

“Turn around?” Draco blurted. His face went hot at the surprised look Potter gave him. Potter chewed his lip for a moment.

“I’ve— I’m thinking a bed would be better for— _that_ , if we ever—” Potter started, and Draco’s mouth opened and closed at the idea that Potter had ever even _considered_ using a bed with him for _that_. Draco swallowed convulsively; he shook his head, placing his hand on Potter’s slowly moving wrist. 

“Not—Not that,” Draco managed, humiliatingly shaky at just the thought. “But—I mean, I wouldn’t—” he said with an exhale, wondering how insane he was to even suggest something different when Harry fucking Potter was offering to suck him off. 

But Potter just looked at him consideringly, eyes veiled, and then released Draco’s prick. He turned around, planting his hands on the countertop, and canted his hips out slightly, then craned his neck to glance at Draco. “Like this?” he asked.

Draco’s voice sounded thready and light to his own ears; it broke, as if he were thirteen again. “Yes,” he said. Potter had gotten even taller over the summer, almost reaching Draco’s height, and had filled out from the scrawny creature he’d been back in May. He was still lean, still rangy, but his back was covered with a fine layer of muscle; his arse was full and round, and it fucking _dimpled_ as Draco stared, Potter shifting and clenching slightly while he waited. Draco hurriedly kicked his shoes off, then removed his socks, grabbing his wand from where it had fallen on the floor as he pushed his trousers and pants the rest of the way off. He yanked his tie loose and plucked the buttons of his shirt open with one hand, then let it hang that way, body trembling as he stepped up behind Potter.

“I’m—ah—” Draco swallowed, unable to continue when his prick—so rigid it almost hurt at this point—pressed against the swell of Potter’s arse. He groaned, then covered Potter’s back with his chest, hissing a little when Potter arched against him. He felt really, really good, his skin warm and muscles flexing. Draco held still for a moment, dropping his forehead to Potter’s shoulder blade.

“You sure you don’t want me to—” Potter started to offer.

“Shut up,” Draco ground out, and Potter fell silent. He craned his neck again to look at Draco, and his eyes were hazy, his cheeks pink.

“Well, I will if you’re actually planning on _doing_ something,” he said. Then, “Did you want to wank over my arse? I’ve thought about doing that to you.”

Draco groaned again, and dipped the tip of his wand into his palm. His voice shook so hard it took him a couple of tries to mutter the lubrication charm, but once he’d gotten it, he didn’t waste any time—he was well aware he didn’t have much at this point—before slipping his hand into the crease of Potter’s arse, Potter flinched, then eased, breathing slow and shallow as Draco slicked up the inside of his arse cheeks. Draco hesitated as his fingers slid over Potter’s furled hole, and it seemed that Potter did too—his chest stilling, breath caught. Draco rubbed the spot lightly, then dragged his fingers away and fisted his own cock, coating it in the oily substance. 

“I have vegetable oil,” Potter got out, voice tight. 

“Ha,” Draco said, adjusting his stance. He placed on hand on Potter’s hip and used the opposite foot to encourage Potter’s legs to come in tighter, with a little nudge. Potter obliged him and Draco took his cock and lined it up, sliding it between the well-greased crevice of Potter’s cheeks. Potter sucked in a breath, but Draco angled, pressing the his jutting cock flush between them, and then Potter said, “ _oh,_ ” in a small voice. And again, louder when Draco began to move— _”Oh.”_

Draco rolled his hips, trying to draw it out, but it had already gone on too long. One thrust had him moaning, five had him digging his fingers into Potter’s narrow hipbone. His legs were bent at the knees and it really wasn’t the best angle, but _Fuck_ it felt good, Potter clenching his arse cheeks tight as Draco rutted between them, speeding up, the head of his cock peeking out near the small of Potter’s back of as Draco slid it upward, before pulling back. He was _so tight_ around Draco’s cock, buttocks tensing and relaxing, and Draco gulped, feeling the wrinkled flesh against his shaft on every downstroke.

“”That’s— _oh, hell, Malfoy_ ” said after a minute or two, voice grainy. “That’s—amazing. Keep—”

One of his hands came off the table and disappeared in front of him as Draco continued to thrust. His shoulder started to move, the wet _slap, slap_ of wanking battling with the sound of Draco’s balls hitting the backs of Potter’s closed thighs until they began to draw up, tingling and aching, closer to his body. 

“I’m—I’m—” Draco tried to tell him, but it came out on a strange, wheezing gasp. Potter’s arm sped up, and he mumbled, “You can, it’s okay—we don’t need a bed.”

Draco cried out, shocks of pleasure zipping down his spine. His cock pulsed, long ropes of come covering the small of Potter’s back and slickening up the inside of his arse cheeks. Potter groaned loudly as Draco continued to come, knees going so weak as his hips jerked and then Potter’s back rounded against him, breath choppy and uneven, arm moving fast, and his groan became a mewling sound. Draco fumbled around and caught his fist over Potter’s, feeling the twitching of Potter’s cock spurting as he came again, hard, all over the side of the counter. 

Draco laid against him limply, sucking in long pulls of air as his equilibrium slowly returned. He pried himself off of Potter when Potter gave a muffled noise of complaint, the promptly turned and slid down the side of the counter, the knobs of the drawers digging into his spine on the way. The floor was cold against his arse. “Potter,” he said, voice reasonably steady.

“Yeah?” Potter heaved himself up, then turned and sat too, the outside of his thigh a warm press against Draco’s. His temples were lightly sheened in sweat, as was his chest, which was sparsely furred with dark hair; Draco hadn’t noticed, before. He did now, taking a long look at Potter’s tiny, brown nipples, at his flat stomach. He reached out and touched the trail of hair below Potter’s belly button, and Potter smiled. 

“I like fairy cakes,” Draco admitted.

“I thought you did,” Potter said with no little amount of satisfaction. 

Draco pulled his hand away. “You can ask me on the date, now,” he said.

“Is _that_ how it goes?” Potter returned, smirking. Draco rolled his eyes, waiting, but Potter started snickering. “You come in here to fuck me—”

“I came to ask about the fairy cakes!” Draco argued, trying to inject some offense into his tone. It didn’t work; his voice came out shamefully contented, even a little sluggish.

“You locked the door, licked your thumb, and cleaned something off my face with it,” Potter pointed out. Draco shrugged.

“You’d made everyone—even my best friends—fairy cakes, and I’ll I’d gotten was an offer to taste them,” Draco said. “I wanted to find out why. I apologised way before Pansy ever did, _plus_ I loaned you my wand—”

“I took your wand,” Potter said, snorting. Draco opened his mouth to make another argument, but then Potter said, “And Pansy didn’t apologise. Well, I guess, ‘Sorry about the whole Dark Lord thing,’ counts in a weird way. But mostly she just came up to me, demanded to know if I was gay, then said she might talk to you if I personalised a batch of fairy cakes for her and spelled out most of the calories.”

Draco didn’t know whether to be impressed or frightened that Pansy knew him so well. He settled on grateful, for the moment. “I see.” He perked up. “An awful lot of effort to get me here,” he said. “And _you’re_ accusing _me_ of coming in here to— to seduce you?”

“Malfoy, you _licked your thumb_ ,” Potter said again.

Oh, right. Draco sighed. He reached over Potter’s stretched legs for his wand, which had somehow fallen to the floor again, and cast a quick cleaning charm over himself. Then, at Potter’s eyebrow raise, over him too. “Did Blaise flirt with you?”

Potter blushed a little. “Maybe,” he conceded. 

Draco glared at him. “So you _baked_ for him?”

“Well, you kept running away! I was thinking I’d got it wrong!” Potter said defensively. Merlin save him from thick-headed Gryffindors, Draco thought.

“Well?” Draco demanded, deciding to overlook his own—small—lack of perception on the subject. He was exhausted, and the smell of pastries in the air was making his mouth water. “You have an idea for mine, then?”

Potter hesitated, shooting him a narrow look, as if contemplating not letting Draco get away with the diversion, but finally pressed a hand to the floor and clambered up. His cock hung, heavy and soft as he stood, and Draco licked his lips. Potter grinned, then headed over to the large cooling box in the corner; muggle, Draco thought, except that it ran on magic. Potter opened it and pulled something out, looking down at it for a moment before returning. He sat back down. 

“I make a batch every few days,” he said quietly, not looking at Draco. “I end up throwing them out.”

Throat gone irrationally tight, Draco looked down at the fairy cake Potter passed over to him. It was… gorgeous, topped with a perfectly-shaped rose of white meringue. A red rose petal was tucked, curled, into the center of it. “What is it?” Draco asked.

Potter shifted; he looked nervous. “Champange-chiffon cake filled with strawberry pastry cream. Champagne-rose meringue,” he said, eyes still trained on his knees. “I thought—posh, for you. And nothing _too_ sweet, but the strawberries and cream help, and the meringue—”

Draco turned and cut him off by kissing him. Potter seemed surprised for the barest of seconds, then kissed Draco back, pulling away breathlessly after a moment. “You like it?”

“I like it,” Draco said, looking at the fairy cake again. “Can I—”

“Yeah,” Potter said, sounding eager now. He watched as Draco peeled back the liner and lifted it to his mouth.

Draco moaned around a mouthful; the cake was light, soft, the texture almost melting against his tongue. The champagne gave it a sharp, bright bite, but it was softened by the cream in the middle, by the sweetness of the meringue, the the tang of the strawberry. 

“Hogsmeade,” Potter said, as Draco debated how embarrassing it would be to have another orgasm from nothing but food. “For the date.”

Caught by that, Draco looked up. Potter hadn’t exactly _asked_ but neither had Draco before coming in here, snogging him silly, and undressing him. Draco nodded, turning back to the cake. “Friday,” he mumbled, as rude as Weasley at his worst, pausing mid-chew. 

“Okay,” Potter said. His hand settled, warm, on the top of Draco’s thigh. He smiled. “How do you taste?”

“Better than anyone else,” Draco said smugly. He held the cake out to Potter. “Taste me,” he offered.

Potter’s eyes gleamed; he leaned in and licked a bit of meringue off of the corner of Draco’s mouth. Draco’s heart sped up. “Put down the fairy cake, Malfoy,” he said.

Draco wanted to argue that he’d only half-finished with the thing, wanted to point out that it was _his,_ made for _him_ , and that whatever Potter was planning could wait another two minutes. But somehow the words never made it out of his throat, and the half-eaten fairy cake fell by the wayside as Potter caught his mouth in a deep kiss. Draco thought, dizzily, that it was a fair-enough exchange.

After all, this way, he got to taste Potter, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love! 
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bixgirl1) now, too, so come say hi to me over there! *waves*


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